


Upside the Head

by JoyAndOtherStories



Series: GO Ficlets [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After That Lunch at the Ritz, Crowley has a head injury remember, Ficlet, Fluff, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Tumblr Prompt, mostly comfort, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 08:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: Tumbler prompt submitted by lucky-leafeon: Edge of consciousnessAfter that lunch at the Ritz, back at the bookshop, Aziraphale remembers something important. Fluffy hurt/comfort for Crowley (mostly comfort).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: GO Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589335
Comments: 36
Kudos: 268





	Upside the Head

(Thanks to [lucky-leafeon](https://lucky-leafeon.tumblr.com) for the prompt!)

“My dear, are you feeing all right?”

Crowley, from his usual chair, blinked up at Aziraphale (something that didn’t happen often).

“Sure,” he said vaguely. “We saved the world yesterday; today we scared the Hell…or the Heaven…out of our bosses…ex-bosses…I’m great.” He squinted at Aziraphale, wondering why he seemed blurry. They weren’t drunk—they’d only had a bit of champagne at the Ritz, and now Aziraphale was paused in the act of opening their first bottle of his collection restored by the Antichrist.

Aziraphale set the bottle down, still unopened. “It’s just that I think your corporation may have concussion,” he said, worriedly.

“Why would I…oh.”

He’d shoved it to the back of his mind, mainly because he was not in any way ready to process the panic that was associated with it, but he definitely remembered his angel (wearing Crowley’s body, but Aziraphale was always unmistakably Aziraphale to Crowley) restrained by demonic hands, a blow from Hastur knocking Aziraphale to the ground while Crowley screamed helplessly into a gag—

He took a breath, looked around to remind himself that both he and Aziraphale were here, safe in the bookshop, nothing restraining them and nobody dragging them anywhere.

It didn’t help that the bookshop was swaying.

He tried to focus on Aziraphale instead.

Aziraphale was also swaying, his gaze increasingly concerned.

“I don’t,” Crowley said, “I don’t…necessarily…feel very good.”

“Can you miracle it away?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley grimaced. “Not sure I should. Kinda woozy.”

“Ah. Right,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid I don’t feel confident about healing concussion myself either. I wouldn’t want to do more harm than good.”

“Eugghh,” Crowley agreed. “Uh—humans. They get concussions. We can google what they…how they…deal with it.”

“We can…what, my dear?”

“Google—it’s a, a search eng—oh, bollocks.” He pulled out his phone, typed “concussion treatment” into the search bar, and winced. “You’d better read it, angel. Pretty sure I shouldn’t right now.” He handed his phone over, closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair. “Ignore the ads.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said. Crowley cracked an eye to see him holding the phone carefully in one hand and scrolling tentatively with one fingertip of the other, and smiled in spite of the growing pain in his head. “I must say that the Google is terribly confusing, but it appears that the…ah, the primary recommendation is simply to rest.”

Rest sounded like a very good idea, except that—

“Aziraphale. I’m not going—I’m staying with you.”

“Well, of course. You know I have a bed up in the flat; we’ll have you situated and comfortable in no time, and—”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley made his voice as firm as he could from his position of supporting his head on the back of the chair. “I’m not going to drift off to sleep while you—what if you’re not here when I wake up?”

“But obviously I’ll be here, my dear. I’m certainly not going to leave you.”

“No—I mean—” Crowley waved an arm, his gaze darting to the door, the windows. The prickling discomfort of sweat swept across his body.

“I see,” said Aziraphale, thoughtfully. “Well. Come here, then.” He took Crowley’s hand and guided him to the couch. “You don’t have to sleep. But rest, at least.”

And before Crowley’s slow-moving brain had caught up with what was happening, Aziraphale had him stretched out along the couch with his head on a pillow.

A pillow that was in Aziraphale’s lap.

“R-really?” Crowley asked weakly. “You don’t mind?”

“Well, it’s only sensible,” Aziraphale said. “Even if you do sleep, you’ll know if I move.”

“No chance I’m sleeping,” Crowley said stubbornly. Aziraphale’s hands were so close to his head, his hair—he’d _fantasized_ about Aziraphale playing with his hair, for—for someone’s sake.

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes traveled over Crowley’s hair; he brought a gentle hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face. “May I…at least help you relax?”

“ _Please_.” Crowley was barely a step away from begging.

And oh, sweet—anything—Aziraphale’s fingers were running through his hair, and it turned out that Crowley could sleep after all.

“Angel?” he asked, just before he slipped over the edge.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale’s fingertips traced delicate lines across his temple.

“Did it…hurt? When they hit you?”

Aziraphale was silent for long enough that Crowley forced his eyes open a crack to look up at him. The angel’s eyebrows were knitted, though not in pain—confusion, maybe.

“It must have done,” he said presently.

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I do—at least, I remember that it happened. I suppose I…wasn’t focused on that at the time.”

“Well, you were…losing consciousness. S’pose it would be hard to focus on anything.”

“That wasn’t it,” said Aziraphale quietly.

“Wasn’t? What…what was it, then?”

Aziraphale breathed deeply, his soft hands moving to cradle Crowley’s aching head.

“Oh, my dear. Why would I care about losing consciousness when I was afraid I could be losing you?”

Crowley opened his mouth to say—

Nothing. He had nothing. Not even a syllable.

“Crowley. My dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice so warm it was an embrace, his gaze so tender it was a kiss. “I promise I’ll be here when you wake. I won’t lose you again.”

Crowley slept, and dreamed of what he loved best.


End file.
